


some time around midnight

by lapoesieestdanslarue



Category: Inception (2010), Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, sad hours ft. Tommy Shelby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 15:49:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18973045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapoesieestdanslarue/pseuds/lapoesieestdanslarue
Summary: “It’s been a while,” Eames says, walking towards him, as if Tommy didn’t know. As if, magically, Tommy was able to not notice that it had certainly been afuckingwhile. It’s been more than a while, he wants to snap. It’s been six months. “How are you doing?”“I hate that question, you know,” Tommy says lazily, exhaling smoke and flicking the ash off of his cigarette.





	some time around midnight

It’s been six months since Eames left him, his bed’s been growing colder ever since, and now Tommy’s damn cigarette won’t light. 

The rain drizzles down from the heavens above, snuffing out his match every time he gets it to light, and even then he barely manages, his hands shaking from the shock of the cold air, in contrast to the heady atmosphere of the pub he’d come from.

“Fuck sake,” he mutters angrily, flicking the soggy match onto the ground. He leans back against the red brick of the building. Sighing, he closes his eyes. Inside, the band are playing some song about forgetting yourself for a while, or maybe it’s about heartbreak. It doesn’t fucking matter, because Tommy reckons they’re one in the same, either way. 

It’s been six months since Eames left him, there’s an empty space where he used to lie in Tommy’s bed, and now Tommy’s is standing outside at three in the morning in the pouring rain. All he wanted was a fucking smoke. 

“Tommy?”

He turns around and sees--

Eames.

Fucking hell that would be his luck. He’s standing at the entrance to the beer garden, still protected from the rain by a gazebo. 

“It’s been a while,” Eames says, walking towards him, as if Tommy didn’t know. As if, magically, Tommy was able to not notice that it had certainly been a _fucking_ while. It’s been more than a while, he wants to snap. It’s been six months. “How are you doing?”

He digs around for something in his pocket, eventually coming up with a box of matches. He lights one in one swift motion and offers it to Tommy, who takes it and lights up. 

“I hate that question, you know,” Tommy says lazily, exhaling smoke and flicking the ash off of his cigarette. 

Eames blinks. “Right. Sorry, I forgot.”

“Well, I’ve been great anyways.” He looks him up and down, feigning indifference. “And you?”

“I’ve been alright, yeah.”

They look at each other, cast in hues of orange and hard yellows from the glow of the lamplights above. There’s something about it, about watching Eames’ eyes in the half-dark, that makes him bold so he says “Would you tell me to fuck off if I asked you to come home with me?”

“I would want to,” Eames answers, sending a hot rod of shame and pain through Tommy’s chest. “But you know I wouldn’t, don’t you?”

Tommy can’t help his small, triumphant grin. “I do.”

 

~*~

They’re walking home and they’re talking about nothingness, really. Tommy speaks briefly of business at the bar and the cuts he’s staked at the races, investments made in horses, and Eames tells him about jobs he’s worked, some light art forgeries on the side and how pissed off he’s getting that that Banksy prick keeps taking all the credit for his work. 

They pass a cigarette between them, rolled hastily by Eames with a small touch of grass, enough to relax and not enough to get a buzz. 

They’re walking home and it’s freezing cold and maybe it’s the drink hitting him late or the half-joint he’s smoked but Eames looks at him and asks him how he’s doing _really_ (because he always knows, he just seems to always _know_ and that’s why Tommy couldn’t handle it the first time round). So he asks him, and Tommy’s defences are down anyways so he does maybe the bravest thing he’s ever done in his life. 

“D’you remember, before, when you asked me that, and I said I hate that question? But then I told you that I was doing great anyways.” Eames looks sideways at him, intently, so Tommy goes on. “I fucking hate that question because it’s always insincere, from the asker and the answerer. Because if I was to be honest, the honest answer would be ‘I’m doing shit’, but I can’t say I’m doing shit because they don’t care and even if they did I wouldn’t have a good enough reason to be feeling so shit. So if I say, “I’m doing shit”, and then they say “Why?” then I have to be like “Everything, all of it, I don’t know”, and what kind of cop out bullshit is that? So when they ask I just lie and I say “I’m doing so great, thanks for asking”. And it makes a liar out of me, and that’s why I hate it.”

Eames is quiet for a moment. “How long?” When Tommy looks at him, Eames repeats the question. “How long have you been feeling shitty?”

Tommy frowns. The one other person he’s disclosed this to-- Arthur-- and the fantasies in his head of this situation never played out like this, never took this turn. He should expect nothing less from Eames though, he supposes; never one to play by the rules. They turn onto his street. 

“I don’t know,” he admits, part rueful and part truthful. “I… It’s not just the breakup,” he rushes to explain. “I’m not saying this is all you.” He looks down at the ground, swallowing. “I think it’s always been there. It’s like I’ve got poison in me, I don’t know. But ever since I can remember, I’ve been asking myself “am I happy?” and I can never answer and that just makes me more miserable. At least in the army the only question I had to answer was “Am I alive?” and the answer was always yes, which was all I needed. And now…” He blows a breath out from between his teeth. “I don’t know. I can distract myself well enough during the day. But then I have to come home, by myself, in my big fuck-off house that I only bought because I’m a child that thought that might be the answer to my problems. And I sit there, on my bed, and I’m alone. And it’s all my own fault.” 

Eames doesn’t bother with token protests. “I never wanted to leave,” he says instead. “You know that.”

“I do,” Tommy admits. “And I drove you away, anyways.”

“I never really understood it,” Eames confesses. “I’d hoped maybe you just needed space, or that it was just a mood, but then... “ He smiles bitterly around his cigarette. “Then it was six months gone, and you were still gone.”

“You never called.” Tommy’s voice is impossibly small.

“Neither did you,” Eames responds. He takes a puff, exhales through his nose. “I didn’t know I could,” he says after a few seconds silence. “I just… accepted it. I knew I wouldn’t be able to bend that iron will of yours, even if I tried. So I just…. Got okay with not being okay.”

By this point, they’ve reached Tommy’s house. He rests his head against the red brick. “I fucked it up.”

“A little bit,” Eames says casually, flicking his cigarette to the ground and stomping it out with his heel. “But nothing’s ever past the point of repair.” At that, his eyes flick up to meet Tommy’s.

“You’re not going to pity fuck me, are you?” Tommy asks. “Just because I said that stuff--”

Eames laughs incredulously. “You are un-fucking-real, do you know that? Of course I’m not going to _pity_ fuck you, jesus-- Tom, I still _love_ you. Jesus, I never stopped. Why can’t you wrap your thick skull around that?”

Tommy lets out a shaky breath. “I’m so sorry,” he breathes. “Eames, I’m so fucking sorry, I--” he hiccups, gulping for a breath, the words right on his lips but impossible to form--

Then Eames is leaning forward and shushing him and wiping something off of his cheeks, and then he realises that he’s crying.

 

~*~

 

They’re lying in bed, wrapped up in one another. “Do you hate me?” Tommy whispers. “For what I did?”

“No,” Eames whispers back, pained at Tommy’s self-loathing. “I could never hate you. I just wish you’d told me what you were feeling. I could have helped. You think you need to carry all this by yourself, but you don’t. You never did.”

“Sometimes, I think I was born with a leak inside of me,” Tommy confesses in the dark of the night. “And any goodness or happiness I had in me just spilled out. And now it’s gone, and I’ll never get it back. It’s too late, there’s just this black poison stuff that ruins everything I touch. And I just… I worry that if i get too close I’d spill all that poison over everyone else. I know it’s stupid but--”

Eames cuts him off with a kiss. “Oh, Tom,” he mutters, hushed against his lips. “You are the furthest thing from poison.”

“I’ve done horrible things, Eames.”

Eames strokes his cheeks. “So have I. So has Arthur, and Michael and John and Pol. And we’re all deserving of love, and we’re all capable of it.”

“I’m so afraid, Eames.” Tommy clutches at Eames’ hands on either side of his face. 

“I know, darling.”

“Promise you’ll stay.”

“I’ll stay.”

“How can you do this so easily?” He asks. The prospect of fully giving and devoting himself to Eames-- it’s the most exhilarating and terrifying thing his broken brain could comprehend. It feels like his heart is running around outside his chest. 

“You’ve just got to trust it,” Eames answers. “Trust it all the way. You don’t have to worry, I’ll be here.”

Trust it, all the way. So he does, and he leans in, and he kisses him.

 

~*~

 

Despite Tommy’s fears, when he wakes in the morning, Eames is there. Eames stayed-- and stays, going into the kitchen and puttering around, making him coffee while Tommy watches.

“How’d you take your coffee again?” Eames asks. “Black?”

Tommy can’t help but smile at the thought that despite the six-month gulf between them, Eames remembers how he takes his coffee. “Yes.”

“Like your soul.”

“Exactly.” Tommy hesitates, watching as Eames pours. 

“And one sugar?” Eames asks. Tommy nods, taking the cup from him “Because you’re so sweet.”

Their eyes meet over the rims of the mugs. Even though his mouth is covered, Tommy is sure Eames could feel the force of his smile from space. “Exactly.”

He’s not sure he minds. Knowing that Eames is there, to catch him when he falls, which is fast approaching, he doesn’t mind at all. 

The crack in the middle of his chest that continuously leaks all the good from his life is still there, but he can breath slightly easier this morning, almost as if someone had half-stitched him up. Regardless, he tucks this moment far away from that crevice, positioning it deep in his right rib cage, where his poison can never touch. 


End file.
